


Wintersend

by thereinafter (isyche)



Series: Matters of Record [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gift Giving, Holidays, Post-Canon, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5565436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isyche/pseuds/thereinafter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a late snow in Denerim, and Tamar Aeducan gives presents, including one of particular significance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wintersend

**Author's Note:**

> (There's a throwaway line in the dwarven noble origin about two vambraces meaning you're unattached; this story assumes that the reverse is also true.)

Since the defeat of the archdemon, they’d been at loose ends. Queen Anora had asked them all to stay at least until the Wintersend festival, when a grand state celebration was planned.

For at least the first week, it had been almost an ecstatic relief to wake up in a real bed in a room with walls, look over at Alistair, remember that there was no one trying to kill them and nothing they needed to do, and go back to sleep, or not, as the case might be.

But eventually, even the short winter days began to stretch out, there was no word from Weisshaupt about their next steps, and Tamar began to want something to do. She watched the rebuilding crews and suppressed the urge to comment on the stonework, sparred with Alistair or whoever felt like it in the training yard until the audiences got out of hand, and even checked the new chanter’s board for anything she could help with.

Finally, one day after she waved to Gorim hawking his family wares in front of his new stall, she had another idea. In her childhood there’d been a fad for Diamond Quarter youth to dabble in the crafts, and before she started command training, she’d become passable at making a few things. Only for private gifts, of course. She’d given her first creation to Bhelen. A belt with his name on it. He’d liked it at the time, and Father even approved.

She felt a pang thinking of her brother as a child, and pushed it down. He’d dived headfirst into the gangue, she’d cried enough in that cell where he left her to die, and her new life came with a new family, of sorts.

After she promised him first crack at exotic materials from wherever the Wardens sent her next, Wade lent her a corner of his renovated workshop and the use of a few tools. From then on, most days she took the dog out for a walk, and if she was alone, stopped at the smithy, ignoring Herren’s dirty looks. It felt cleansing to use her hands on untainted fire and stone and metal. Dog liked to sleep beside the forge, and if she came back with little burns and soot marks, they weren’t that noticeable.

Over the course of the winter, she made a collection of mabari chew toys (which grew as she scrapped more initial efforts), a metal-bound flask for Oghren, a journal cover for Wynne, dagger sheaths for Zevran, thin gloves backed with fine scales for Leliana, a baldric for Sten’s Asala, a large pigeon-swatter for Shale, and finally, after a great deal of thought, a not-quite-matching set of vambraces with the Warden motto in silverite. She went back and forth on this many times, trying first one thing and then another, consulting with Wade on the best way to do the inlay, and finally settled on a deceptively simple design of overlapping strips inset with the words.

She made the final cut and set the final rivet on the cloudy but winter-bright day before Wintersend, with snowflakes starting to fall. She smuggled them into the palace, wrapped in cloth, and hid them in her wardrobe.

 

* * *

 

The feast groaned with even more pomp than the ones she was used to. Anora had spared no expense to prove Ferelden’s continued strength and celebrate its defeat of the Blight. Official commendations and thanks were presented to a long parade of people who’d been involved in the defense of the kingdom somehow, and speeches were made.

As the chief guests of honor, the Wardens and their friends were seated up front at the high table, far from any escape route. Outside, there were bonfires and tapped casks and musicians and street theatricals. She looked wistfully toward the windows for a moment and then back to the man finishing his speech. An envoy of some sort from the north, probably with an important story she’d missed.

“Psst.” Zevran tapped her shoulder and then passed her a dish. “Try this. Arbor Wilds pepper stew. Excellent.”

When the stew touched her mouth, it was like her tongue caught fire. She coughed and took a long drink of her wine. “Hell of a bite,” she whispered when her voice recovered.

He chuckled. “Come now, what kind of dragonslayer is defeated by heat?”

Wynne leaned in on his other side. “Eat some bread, dear. And pass me that stew if you would.”

“No, no, give it to Alistair,” Zevran said, still laughing. “I would pay to see him try to eat this.”

“What?” Alistair said, looking up.

The flames had died down to an admittedly delicious aftertaste. “It’s nothing like your stew, that’s for sure. This is actually quite good.” She helped herself to another spoonful, then passed it to Wynne and grinned. “Try it after her.”

“At least you got something edible,” Leliana said. The cooks had risen to the occasion with foreign and domestic delicacies for all of them—including an elaborate, garishly colored Orlesian-style sugar subtlety, brought out by a blushing apprentice who had set it in front of Leliana and stammered something before running back to the kitchen. It took up almost a quarter of the table and was hard as a rock. “She was an adorable little _patissi ère_, poor thing, but really, what can I do with this?”

“ _Crush it_ ,” Shale said in a low rumble from the far end of the table. “Or I can, if you’re too soft. I think it would shatter delightfully.”

Tamar lay back in her chair and surrendered herself to mostly-silent laughter while the next speaker walked up to the dais.

 

* * *

 

The official ceremonies ended just before sundown. Stuffed and a little tipsy, she paid her respects to the queen and dignitaries, then excused herself and hurried up to retrieve her gifts. She had to make three trips back and forth to deliver them all: three armfuls of cloth bundles, deposited one by one in her companions’ rooms or resting places, with little notes that she’d written to accompany them. The last one she left in her wardrobe. Then she went out to meet the others at the bonfires.

It had snowed all night and all day: a long unexpected late snow after months of dry grayness, blanketing the city, as if to erase its recent troubles. The evening shadows seemed to recede in its soft reflected glow. She stood in the doorway, glanced up at the pale twilight void of the sky, and braced herself for the usual wave of vertigo. _You won’t fall in, you idiot._ When it passed, she stepped out into the courtyard.

The experience of snow in quantity was still new to her. She tugged on her gloves and took another hesitant step into it; her boot sank through a loose layer, like the fluffy ash that collected near open lava flows, and then crunched against something harder.

After she’d taken a few steps, a ball of snow flew by her head and smashed against the wall. A moment later, another hit her shoulder. She whirled around reflexively, slipped, and landed ignominiously on her rear, sending up a cloud of flakes that sparkled in the torchlight as they descended on her.

Alistair came out from around the corner. “’That’s for insulting my stew,’ I was going to say, smugly. But that was before I remembered you didn’t grow up with snow.” He looked down at her, failing to suppress a grin.

“Not fair,” she said, brushing at her legs and arms and face. “Blindsiding me while I’m trying not to fall up. Blast it, look at this.”

“You’re right. That was unbefitting the honor of the Wardens.” He opened his arms. “Hit me back. I won’t even move.”

“If you say so.” Still sitting, she scooped up a double handful of the heavier snow and began to pack it together gingerly, watching him as she did so. “Like this?”

“You’ve really still never had a snowball fight? How have we not done this?”

She got from one knee to both feet, feinted to one side, then whipped her arm around. The double-size snowball hit his chest with a satisfying explosion. “I do catch on fast.”

“So we’re even. For now. En garde!” He bent to grab more snow, and she took the opening and threw quickly packed handfuls from the drift she stood in, until he turned and chased her down with that unfairly long stride. She had to jump, dive, and roll under a fence to get ahead.

When she got up, laughing, her hair was full of snow and chunks of it were falling down her neck into her shirt. Her face and fingers stung from the cold, but it was invigorating.

Alistair climbed over the fence. “You look like a snow woman.” He brushed snow off her head.

“I never imagined it as so cold and wet from books, but I like it,” she said, dusting at her trousers again.

“Hardly any on me in comparison, if you notice. I think I won.”

She smiled, then tackled him and pulled him down into the snowbank as he laughed and struggled. “Draw,” she said when he was sufficiently covered.

“Speaking of snowmen,” he said, sitting up and shaking his head. “You’ve never made one either, have you?”

“No! Let’s.”

Alistair thought for a moment, then brightened further. “You know, back at Redcliffe, I used to have these dreams every winter of building an enormous snow dragon. Just no one to help.”

She felt her usual flash of anger at Arl Eamon. If Anora hadn’t sent him home, she’d have been hard pressed to stay diplomatic with the man. And she’d have had words for Maric, too. “Come on, talk me through the details.”

They set to work rolling snowballs around an empty stable yard, lining them up and mounding the snow over them in a curling snaky shape.

After a while, people began to notice and drift over from the bonfires until they had a small crowd of spectators at the fence. “Look, the Grey Wardens!” someone said. “Could be.” “I thought they’d be taller.” “What in Andraste’s name are they doing?”

Some stayed there to watch and drink but some came in to help, and before long they had a dragon-building crew of friends and strangers.

“It is marvelous,” said Leliana, standing back and surveying the project from a safe distance. She gestured with the wine cup she was holding. “You know the Wardens used to ride on griffons? Perhaps you should put a saddle on it so you can ride the dragon.”

“This making is almost as enjoyable as destruction,” boomed Shale, hoisting a massive block of snow over her head. “I wonder if Caridin ever considered snow as a medium. A troop of snow golems who can re-form at will and be pulverized again and again.”

“It’d all be jolly until spring came,” said Alistair.

“Yes.” Shale heaved the block onto the back of the nascent dragon and it landed with a soft wave of powder over all of them. “The most hateful season. I loathe it so.” With an irritated sigh, the golem went to fetch more snow, leaving them dusting themselves off again.

The fourth time they were showered, as the snow and icy melt slid down inside Tamar’s clothes, she began to shiver uncontrollably. She tried to push it off and noticed her hands were clumsy.

“Oh, my, you look nearly frozen!” Leliana said. “How have you stayed out so long in so little? You should go in and have a hot bath, right this instant. Thaw out your blood.”

She accepted Leliana’s cloak, and a sip of her wine, and became aware of pins and needles in her fingers as she handed the warm cup back.

“Alistair!” Leliana called out. “Look, she is freezing! Take her inside before you have an ice block for a Warden-Commander.”

He hurried over. “Maker, you are an ice block. You should have said something!” He took her hands, pulled her gloves back, and bent down to breathe on them, pressing warmth into the cold skin. There were whoops from the crowd.

“Ignore them. That’s lovely,” she said through chattering teeth. “A hot bath does sound like almost exactly what I want right now.”

“Go with her,” said Leliana. “You look frozen too. Your dragon, it will still be here in the morning. Maybe even finished, if Shale has anything to say about it.”

Alistair looked up from her hands. “Can I get you a blanket, or, I don’t know, what do you need?”

She grinned at his concerned expression. “I’m not about to shatter. Just come in with me.”

“Of course.”

“Good night!” Leliana waved her cup. “ _Joyeux fin d’hiver_ , my friends.”

"And to you!” She turned back. “Oh, I’d almost forgotten. I left you something in your room, a kind of present.”

“Oh, you are darling! I will look forward to it!”

“A present?” Alistair said as they trudged across the snowy yard.

“I have them for everyone. Including you. Kind of a ‘thank you all for almost getting killed with me, and also happy Wintersend’ gift. Mainly.”

“Ooh.”

 

* * *

 

On the way inside, she asked the chamberlain to have baths drawn. When they reached their room, there was a roaring fire in the grate, and a team of footmen brought in two copper tubs and filled them, clouds of steam rising from the water.

As soon as they had gone, she dropped her clothes and climbed into her tub, feeling the sear over her cold feet, then the heat soaking in, her heartbeat in her ears as she stretched out. “Thank the Stone for Leliana.” She ducked her head under and shook it. “Aren’t you going to get in yours? It won’t stay hot for long.”

“I think I’ll wait until it actually stops boiling, thanks.” He sat down on the bed and started pulling his boots off.

“Suit yourself. You’d never last in the sulfur pools.” Pushing her hair back out of her face, she leaned against the side of the tub to watch him unlace and unbuckle things.

His shirt was half undone when he noticed her looking. “What?”

“Nothing. Carry on, take your time.”

“Oh, like this, you mean?” he said in a mock-seductive terrible Zevran impression and started pulling out a shirt lace extremely slowly.

“I almost freeze myself to death, and such cruelty in return,” she said, falling back with a dramatic splash.

He laughed, finished undoing the lace, then gave up, pulled the whole shirt off over his head, wriggled awkwardly out of his hose, and hurried into the other tub. She lay in her simmering water and watched. When her tub began to cool, she climbed out, wrapped herself in a light robe, and went to sit by the hearth, toasting herself and drying her hair.

After a few minutes Alistair finished and came to sit behind her. She leaned back into him and he put an arm around her. Her awareness of him was a pleasant, steady beating glow.

“I never thought I’d get to actually build the dragon,” he said. “Or fight them, either, I suppose. So. Thank you?”

She glanced back and smiled. “Here’s to more. I’m getting used to these surface things. And your holidays. Oh, wait, I said I had something for you.”

Suppressing a little wave of nervousness, she disengaged herself, went to retrieve the last bundle from the wardrobe, and dropped it in his lap. “Here.”

He began unwrapping the cloth. “Wow. A Wintersend gift.”

“I … made it,” she said, trying to excuse the flaws that jumped out at her as soon as it came into view. “And different things for everyone else.” She pointed. “It’s just decorative, not like what you could get from a smith, not for battle, but I did put the Warden words on, there, see, because I know what they mean to you—”

Beaming, he interrupted her nervous babble. “You made this? Yourself? Really?” He ran his fingers over the letters in wonderment, touched her silvery signature-rune on the inside strap. “Maker’s breath! I don’t know what to say. No one’s ever made a present for me before.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding in a laugh of relief. “Well, they should have.”

“You’ve done so much no one ever did for me,” he said, looking up at her from where he sat, voice dropping into a lower register. “I—”

She took his face in her hands, knelt, and kissed him before he could say more.

A long moment later, he caught his breath and felt for the vambrace in the tangle between them, slid it on, started tightening it around his wrist one-handed. “Help me try it on?”

“I’m such an amateur.” She fastened the last buckle, mentally cringing at its imperfection. “Having them made would have been more correct.” The rest came out in more tumbling words. “But, so, this is the thing. I made one for you but also one for me, and if you have some idea what that means in Orzammar—”

He looked up at her, eyes widening. “Oh.”

She pressed on. “That is to say, I’ll understand if you don’t want—”

“Maker, I’ll never take it off.”

Her heart leaped, absurdly exultant. “All right, good, yes, then,” she managed to say before she was kissed again.

Correctness was overrated, she thought. Her old self could never have imagined this twice-restored life, this improbable cloudheaded man who was all the house and lineage and honor she wanted now.

She pushed closer in, set her knee over his. The metal was rough along her back as his arm tightened, warmed by his skin but still in sharp contrast to the other. “Shall I get mine?” she said in her next breath. “It’s in the wardrobe still.”

“No.” He took her right hand, and his mouth was warmer still, on her palm. “Not that I don’t want to see.” He kissed her wrist. “But.” Her shoulder. “Stay here.”

She settled against him with a quiet shaking laugh, and neither of them went anywhere for some time.

 

* * *

 

“So, I assume you didn’t make the same thing for everyone,” he said into her hair a bit later. “Unless I’m incredibly wrong about this.”

She chuckled, ran her hand up his arm, and felt the words she’d etched, _In war victory, in peace vigilance, in death sacrifice_ , but not yet and not here. Between him and the fire at her back, Tamar felt alight through and through, skin to bone, a blazing contentment, as if the last chill of her exile had left her while she wasn’t looking.

She began listing gifts on her fingers. “Dog toys, pigeon-swatter, pretty gloves, flask …”

“Did you say pigeon-swatter?”

“Yes.” When he started to laugh, she added, “Seriously, what would you make for Shale?”

“Good point.”

She raised her head and glanced over his shoulder. The curtained bed across the room looked too dark, cold, and far away. “I’ll show you tomorrow, but right now I don’t want to move.”

“Well, for the sake of tradition, I should carry you over something.”

She yawned and put her arm around his neck. “Such initiative, Warden Alistair. I see a commendation in your future.”

”Right,” he said, and when he proceeded to get his feet under him and actually lift her off the floor, she laughed harder and hung on, adding, “Or several.”

 


End file.
